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he Land Where Lost 
Things Go : a Play in a 
Prologue and Three Acts : 
by Doris Halman 



PRIZE PLAY 
DRAMA LEAGUE OF AMERICA 
PATRIOTIC PLAY COMPETITION 




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28-30 West Thirty-eighth St. : New York 



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The Land Where Lost 
Things Go : a Play in a 
Prologue and Three Acts: 
by Doris Halman ^^^ 



- \s 



»*«ZE PLAY 
DRAMA LEAGUE OF AMERICA 
PATRIOTIC PLAY COMPETITION 



Samuel French : Publisher 

28-30 West Thirty-eighth St. : New York 



LONDON 



Samuel French, Ltd. 

26 Southampton Street, Strand 



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Copyright, 1918, By Drama League of America 



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4 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 



SYNOPSIS 

Note. — * The words to this song are taken from 

Sleeping, in A Day in a Child's Life, published by 

\::^ Routledge, London. Music by Myles R. Foster. 

.j^ They may also be adapted to the tune of Rockabye, 

\!^ Baby. 

^ PROLOGUE 

Alan Braith, age seventeen, is the son of a practical, 
pacifist father and a mother whose dread of war has 
been intensified by the death of her older son, Jim, — 
Jim, a young daredevil going straight from college 
to the aviation corps for the lark of it, rather than 
for any patriotic impulse. Therefore, in spite of 
Revolutionary ancestry and a grandfather who 
fought in the Civil War, x\lan is the product of his 
immediate family's influence. He sees no sense in 
any war, much less in a war solely for the benefit 
of other nations. On the evening of the prologue, 
he returns home after quarreling with his high- 
school crowd over these issues. Embittered by the 
squabble and by the fact that he has to write a theme 
on the *' silly " subject of The Land Where Lost 
Things Go, he sits down to his task in a room that 
is cold because his father is practically if not 
patriotically saving coal. It is late, and he sleeps. 

ACT I 

{To he set with bhie-lit curtains,) 

The cold takes Alan to Valley Forge, " a far 
corner of the Land." There he sees an incipient 
mutiny against the General by freezing and ragged 

3 



4 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

soldiers. When it is found that the government, 
and not the General, is responsible for the lack of 
supplies, the mutiny is quelled. Alan sets out for 
the government at Philadelphia, with the General's 
second appeal for aid. Incidentally, he has learned 
from the attitude of the very mutineers what it 
means to fight for one's own country. 

ACT II 

{To, be set with green-lit curtains and a wall.) 

To his grandfather's home in Philadelphia, 
" somewhere in the Land ", comes Alan. The Civil 
War is to begin, and young Philip Braith is wild to 
go. When Alan shows him a runaway slave hiding 
in the garden, even the pleading of his sweetheart, 
Marianna, cannot hold him back. Marianria's 
pride is hurt, and she tells him never to come back. 
When he is gone, Alan, to his amazement, finds him- 
self defending Philip, on the ground that it is right 
to fight for another race providing one thereby 
benefits one's own land. And when he has ap- 
pealed to the future which he knows will reunite the 
lovers, Marianna softens and sends him after Philip, 
to tell him she will wait. 

ACT HI 

(To be set zvith rose-lit curtains, a red reflection.) 

Seeking a man named Braith, Alan comes then to 
the Edge of the Land ; and there he finds his own 
brother, Jim, changed from a dare-devil boy to a 
grave and tender man by his share in the greatest 
of causes. Through him, at last, Alan can imder- 
stand the nobility back of the horror, and the spirit 
of participation. 

{A brief epilogue serves to wake Alan ?//?, still 

patriotic.) 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 5 



PROLOGUE 

Scene: The living-room of the BraithsV There 
is a fireplace at the right, with an armchair 
drawn close to it, and a large steel-engraving of 
Washington crossing the Delaware hanging 
above it. On the left is a writing-table, zvith 
a small chair at either side. The door is in the 
back wall; and prominently on this same wall 
hangs a much enlarged framed photograph of a 
Sifiiling young man. 

When the curtain rises, Mr. Braith is in the 
armchair, reading a newspaper. His gray suit 
has a conspicuous black band round the sleeve. 
Mrs. Braith, in deep black, sits by the table, 
knitting a gray szv eater. 

After a moment of silence, she sighs and 
looks across at him.. Her attention is caught by 
a photograph in the paper. 

Mrs. Braith. Young men on the front page — 
that always means one thing. 

Mr. Braith. Now, mother. {But he turns the 
paper, and looks for himself) 

Mrs. Braith. What — was he? 

Mr. Braith. {Very gruff) Oh, an — aviator, 
mother. (Mrs. Braith starts; her gaze goes to her 
own photograph; and there is a little pause. Mr. 
Braith ostentatiously turns the paper back to its 
former page, blowing his nose meanwhile) 

Mrs. Braith. {At last, softly) I wonder — if 
he was a friend of Jim's? (Mr. Braith rattles the 
paper violently. She returns to her knitting. The 
doorbell peals about six times. Mrs Braith rises, 



6 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

and her husband glances up) There's Alan. {Exit, 
As soon as she is gone^ Mr. Braith begins to read 
about the aviator) 

A Boy's Voice. {Outside) Hello, ma, dearie! 
(Mrs. Braith re-enters, followed by a boy of 
seventeen, zvho peels off his coat as he comes in) 
Hello, dad ! 

Mr. Braith. Alan, you keep your mother on 
the jump, as usual. Where's your latch-key? 

Alan. {Embarrassed) Why, — in my other 
clothes, maybe. 

Mrs. Braith. Oh, Alan, don't you know? 

Alan. I — I guess I lost it, ma. 

Mr. Braith. Lost your key! 

Mrs. Baith. What won't he lose next! And 
now we'll have burglars ! 

Alan. {Disgusted) Oh, say, mother! — 

Mr. Braith. All the same, young man, if you 
keep on losing things, we'll do something to break 
you of it once for all. 

Mrs. Braith. {Because he is stern) All boys 
must be alike, father. It used to be the same way, 
you know, with Jim. (Alan throws his overcoat 
on a chair) Oh, Alan, your coat ! — hang it up. 

Alan. {Making excuses) It's cold in here. I 
may need it any minute. 

Mr. Braith. Son! (Alan takes it out) — Has 
he done his lessons ? 

Mrs. Braith. Probably not! 

(Alan comes back.) 

Alan. What makes it so cold in this house, any- 
way? Over to Bob's, it's warm enough. They've 
got heat. 

Mr. Braith. I don't care what they do, or any- 
body else. My government wants me to economize 
on coal, and we're going to do without it, just as 
long as we can. 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 7 

Alan. You're awfully patriotic all of a sudden. 

Mr. Braith. If all war was as sensible as this 
matter of home economy, I should believe in it. 

Alan. You'd like anything that saved you 
money. 

Mr. Braith. Well, who wouldn't? 

Mrs. Braith. (Changing the subject) Have 
you done your lessons, Alan ? 

Alan. Not yet. 

Mr. Braith. And how do you expect to get 
through high school, if you never study ? 

Alan. I meant to come home sooner, dad. But 
there was a bunch of fellows over to Bob's, and we 
got talking. (He stops with a little scowl) 

Mrs. Braith. Talking about what? 

Alan. Oh, war. 

Mr. Braith. I hope those boys haven't been 
putting romantic nonsense into your head ! 

Alan. They didn't, but they tried to. We got 
kind of hot over it, I guess. 

Mrs. Braith. What do you mean, dear? 

Alan. They called me a — slacker — ^because I 
didn't believe in the whole business. Is it my fault 
that I can't see why we had to mix into somebody 
else's troubles? Haven't I a right to that opinion? 
Can't I loathe the thought of years wasted, and land 
destroyed, and people — getting killed? (Moved, 
he swings tip to his brother's picture) 

Mrs. Braith. They haven't had it brought home 
to them, those other boys. 

Mr. Braith. You've got more sense than any 
of 'em. 

(Alan, encouraged in his stand by his parents, 
comes back to the armchair. He talks ex- 
citedly,) 

Alan. They said I ought to be patriotic, because 



8 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

dad's father was a Civil War veteran; and I told 
them ho probably couldn't help himself, but got 
roped into that mess. It's easy enough to be proud 
about it afterwards, and tell yarns, and march all 
dressed up in parades. 

Mr. Eraith. He w^as a brave man. 

Alan. Brave! What's that got to do with it? 
Can't you despise things you wouldn't run awav 
from? Can't you? 

Mrs. Braith. Of course. 

Alan. Nobody ever called me a coward till to- 
nis^ht. 

Mr. Braith. You're not. And I know one thing 
about my father. He lost all his money in that war. 
I've had to slave hard enough to earn it back again, 
to know what peace is worth. 

Alan. Bill Ferris said he knew my mother was 
a D. A. R., because his was. He said thank God 
my ancestors and not me lived during the Revolu- 
tion, or there wouldn't be any United States. (He 
turns to his mother) Why, dearie, he wanted to 
know what w^as the matter with you, that you didn't 
teach me any better ! 

Mrs. Braith. Oh, yes, my ancestors. You look 
at their idle swords, and think you have their spirit 
in you. And then you learn the truth from your — 
descendants. I guess your friends forgot about our 
Jim. 

Alan. No, they didn't forget about Jim ! I got 
plenty of Jim, I can tell you! And I — (He stops 
shorty looking rather abashed) 

Mrs. Braith. You — what? 

Alan. Well, I told them the truth. I said Jim 
w^as a faddist. I told 'em he went to college be- 
cause all his friends did, and that he gave it up for 
service abroad because the men he knew were going. 
He thought it was f im to be an aviator ; he wen't to it 
laughing; and he didn't have the faintest idea that 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THHn^GS GO 9 

he'd get — killed. You know it, mother, even you ! — 
Jim wasn't partiotic. I told them if Jim could 
come back, he'd be as surprised as anybody, he'd 
take it as just another of life's little jokes, to find 
he'd died and was a hero ! 

Mrs. Braith. Alan, you mustn't — even if it's 
true — you mustn't talk like that. 

Alan. Oh, dearie, I'm sorry. {He bends over 
her, mid kisses her) 

Mr. B,raith. (Gruffly) Now, get to work. Get 
to w^ork. (Again he blows his nose with emotion) 

Alan. It's so late. — Maybe I could be excused. 

Mrs. Braith. But your marks aren't very good 
now. What have you got to do, dear ? 

Alan. (With great distaste) A theme. 

Mrs. Braith. Oh, just that! 

Alan. Bad enough, I can tell you. If they ex- 
pect fellow^s to write themes, why don't they give 
'em a decent subject? 

Mrs. Braith. What is your subject? 

Alan. (In utter disgust) The Land Where 
Lost Things Go. 

Mr. Braith. (Pompously) I don't blame you. 
I can't imagine myself making up anything about 
that ! 

Alan. Of course, it's all right for girls. They 
seem to like to drivel about that sort of thing. You 
might know my teacher was a girl once — she's al- 
ways giving out subjects like that. 

Mr. Braith. (With complete understanding) 
Taxes your imagination, I suppose. 

Alan. What can you say about it? There isn't 
even any such place 

Mrs. Braith. (Softly) Perhaps there is. 

Alan, (Realizing that she, too, was a girl) 
Mother ! 

Mrs. Braith. Yes, perhaps. I think — ^Jim — 
would be there. 



lo THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

Alan. Oh, — don't. 

Mr. Braith. Plenty of Alan's belongings would 
be in that place, I guess. Come, mother. Mustn't 
get gloomy, dear. 

Mrs. Braith. (Smiling at them) I know. I 
know. 

jXFr. Braith. Do the best you can, son. I say, 
the hardest job's the one to tackle. That's success! 

Alan. Oh, I suppose I'll have to. 

Mrs. Braith. Why don't you stay down here to 
work? It's colder upstairs. You'll have it quiet — 
your father and I are going to bed. 

Alan. All right. (He goes to the table) But I 
wish those fellows hadn't put all that war stuflf into 
my head. 

Mr. Braith. (Rising) Nonsense ! Concentrate ^ 
(He pats him evcoitragingly on the hack) 

Mrs. Braith. Good-night, dear. Forget the war, 
and write a nice theme. 

Alan. I'll try, anyhow. (He smiles till they 
disappear. Then he sobers, sits dozvn at the left 
of the table, takes some paper from a drawer, and 
tries to begin. He riins his fingers through his 
hair; his attention zvanders ; he raises his head and 
stares at the steel-engraving opposite. Then he 
rouses and shakes his fist at it. He writes a few 
words, then turns and speaks in a low tone to the 
portrait on the back wall) I can't write if you smile 
at me. (The devil-may-care young face of Jim 
smiles on. He throws down his pen, and, getting 
up, zvanders restlessly toward the armchair. Pick- 
ing up the paper that his father has left there, he 
meets the eyes of the young man on the front page. 
Then he flings the paper from him; and, returning 
to the table, changes his seat to the opposite side, 
slightly turned toward the audience, so as to see 
neither picture. He speaks again, resolutely) Now, 
let's see ! — The — Land — Where — Lost— Things — 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO ii 

Go — {He shivers and turns up his coat collar. Then 
he bends over his work) Cold ! — {His head droops, 
and he lets it rest on his arms on the table. He 
mnrviurs, drozvsily) The — Land 



{The stage goes dark.) 



The Land Where Lost Thtngs Go 



ACT I 

A FAR CORNER OF THE LAND 

THE CHARACTERS 

The Sentry 

The Captain 

The Two Mutineers 

The Messenger 

The General 

Alan 

Scene : Long curtains of a neutral pale gray hang- 
ing straight along the back and sides of the 
stage from the set for this and the two follovj- 
ing acts. They are now lighted with a steely 
bhie glare. The ground underfoot is white and 
large blocks of ice are piled fantastically in the 
corners. 

Up and down, up and dozvn over this frosty 
stage marches the Sentry, with a sort of 
rhythmic hobble. He is lank and very ragged, 
with a wisp of a queue sticking out behind him. 
His leg's and feet are wrapped round in vari- 
colored cloths; his body is encased in the 
shreds of a Colonial uniform; and over his 
shoulder sags an ancient musket. But the truly 
aniamng feature of his costume is the cerise 
silk knitted muffler zvhich keeps his battered 

13 



14 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

cocked hat safely lashed to his head. It is 
neither old nor worn, and its cheerful modernity 
almost chortles aloud. 

The Sentry. {Pausing to blow on his hand^) 
Cold! — {He resumes his march) Cold — cold — 
{He decides to sing) " Drink to me only with thine 
eyes — {He breaks off, with a defeated grin) Marry, 
it is cold ! {He listens, zvith head cocked on one 
side, to a sound from the right, zvhich has caught his 
attention. Then, going to the right hand curtain, he 
bars the entrance, with his bayonet extended before 
him) Who goes there? 

(Alan, entering, nearly runs on the bayonet.) 

Alan. Oh ' 

The Sentry. Not so fast, my young friend. 
What's the word? 

Alan. I don't know what you mean. 

The Sentry. Then get you gone. Here's no 
passing. 

Alan. Well, you haven't the right to stop me ! 
Who are you, anyway? 

The Sentry. And who are you, which is more to 
the point — of my bayonet? 

Alan. I'm a citizen of the United States, and I 
go unmolested wherever I please. 

The Sentry. {Staring at him) Merciful Gods ! 
The lad's daft. 

Alan. Are you insulting the United States? 

The Sentry. No, I'm not. I'm a citizen of that 
same place, like yourself; but I haven't ytt noticed 
the advantages you speak of. Marry, to me it mea'~ 
freezing and starving and bleeding, and such merri- 
ment. And as for going unmolested 

Alan. How dare you ! 

The Sentry. Ah, you're thinking ahead, my 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 15 

line lad, way, way ahead. We all know there's a 
day coming when the country will stand for just 
those things, or else v/e wouldn't be here, the miser- 
able pack of us. But give us time in which to make 
it so ! And meanwhile, be off with you ! 

Alan. I don't want to turn back. 

The Sentry. No? And you don't want to go 
forward, mark my word for that. Here's no spot 
for warming babes fresh from the cradle, or any 
other man, save as his soul bids him come on. 

Alan. Where — is — this ? 

The Sentry. Mayhap you mistook it for the 
North Pole? But it's not. 'Tis only a far and 
freezing corner of the Land. 

Alan. What land? 

The Sentry. Why, bless my soul, the Land 
Where Lost Things Go. {He has lowered his 
bayonet while he stares at Alan in amusement, 
Alan comes farther in) 

Alan. Oh! Why, — I had to write a theme 
about that ! I thought there wasn't any such place ! 
Do you mean to say it's a real land, like any other 
in the geographies, with hills and valleys ? 

The Sentry. To be sure ! And you're in a 
valley to start with. 

Alan. This cold place ? 

The Sentry. {Nodding) Valley Forge. 

Alan. {Staring back breathlessly) Honest? 

The Sentry. And as I've remarked before, 
here's to be found no nest well feathered, nor food 
well cooked ; and a wretch is glad enow for aught 
he finds that will tie his body and his soul together. 

Alan. {Noticing the muffler) Yes, I see. — 
{He stares harder. His tone changes) Where on 
earth did you find that? 

The Sentry. Not on the earth, boy; but over 
yonder, hanging on a bush. 

Alan. Here? 



i6 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

The Sentry. Aye ; warming the icicles. On 
the whole, I preferred it should warm me, color 
and all. 

Alan. (Chuckling) It's not very pretty. 

The Sentry. 'Tis an outlandish thing. But 
here's no choice. 

Alan. Yes, I suppose if Fd been in Valley 
Forge, I wouldn't have tried so hard to lose it. 

The Sentry. What ! Was it yours ? 

Alan. My aunt gave it to me last Christmas. I 
can tell you I lost it before school opened again. 
That made her mad; but she won't mind so much 
if I tell what good it did you. 

The Sentry. You're welcome to the story. 

Alan. And you're welcome to the muffler ! 

(They are both laughing, when two dark forms ap- 
proach them from the left. These are tall men 
wrapped in rags. One has no shoes, the other 
no hat. Both are armed,) 

The Hatless One. (To the Sentry) Ah, 
Jonas ! 

The Sentry. (Saluting) Captain! 

The Captain. Who passed you by to-day? 

(The Sentry hesitates,) 

The Other Mutineer. There's a strange man 
in the camp. I saw him. 

The Sentry. Mean you this poor crazy boy? 

The Captain. You know well enough I do not ! 

The Mutineer. The uniformed messenger, 
friend Jonas ! 

The Sentry. (Pretending to remember) Ah. 

The Captain. (Pointing to the right) Came 
he over this road ? 

The Sentry. (Shrugging) Aye. 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 17 

The Captain. Good ! 
The Mutineer. {Eager) And whence? 
The Sentry. From Philadelphia, he said. 
The Mutineer. Word from the government! 

(Alan looks puzzled.) 

The Captain. Food, mayhap? 

The Sentry. Yes, promises of food; and a fat 
feast of words withal ! 

The Captain. {Doubtfully) If it were relief 
at last. — There is high time for an answer, since 
the general wrote. 

The Mutineer. Said he wrote ! 

The Sentry. Careful, friend! 

The Captain. All the same, Jonas, we have 
cause to doubt. We'd not be refused help by the 
very government for which we struggle and die. 

The Mutineer. // Congress knew our plight. 

The Sentry. But the general sent them word. 

The Mutineer. {Laughing scornfully) Are 
you so sure? 

The Sentry. I saw his messenger depart this 
way. 

The Mutineer. {Sneering) So? For Phila- 
delphia, too. 

The Sentry. Aye, what more do you want? 

The Captain. Remember, Jonas, the enemy is 
also round about Philadelphia, 

The Mutineer. Snug and warm in the houses, 
curse their souls ! 

The Captain. That message — might have gone 
to them. 

The Sentry. {With a start) You fear — ■ — 

The Captain. Betrayal into their hands. 

The Sentry. But the general — not our general — 
You are overzealous, friends. 

The Mutineer. So is the winter weather, here 



i8 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

in Valley Forge. When I went barefoot, that was 
too bad: the government must know. Now the 
general's shoes wear out — that is worse : the enemy 
must know. They will give him new shoes in ex- 
change for the poor heap of rags that we are. He 
would get the better of that bargain in old clothes. 

The Captain. It is true that our condition makes 
us useless to him. 

The Mutineer. Too weak to forage ! 

The Captain. Too few to attack. 

Tpie Sentry. He does for us what he can. 

The Mutineer. Good Jonas, what is that? 

The Sentry. (Obliged to stop and think) 
Marry, the huts he had us build. 

The Mutineer. Beasts in a stable ?Lre better 
housed. 

The Sentry. 'Twas only to be until the help 
came. 

The Captain. And now the messenger brings 
nothing. 

The Sentry. He is but just arrived. 

The Captain. Then why, think you, the general 
keeps so silent? 

The Mutineer. Tell us that! 

The Sentry. Silent? 

The Captain. I have been to him with the 
prayers of freezing men upon my lips, begging to 
know what Congress will do for us. 'Tis no occasion 
to hold back news. The hopes of the soldiers grow 
as faint as their stomachs. Without reassurance, 
he cannot think to hold them. 

The Mutineer. The sooner they rise, the bet- 
ter! 

The Sentry. He will say naught of the mes- 
sage, captain? 

The Captain. No word. Only to trust in him. 

The Mutineer. Long, sharp icicles hang on our 
trust, piercing his fine words through ! 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 19 

The Sentry. {Slowly) Marry, it does look 
queer. 

The Captain. It means that we must act, 
Jonas. 

The Mutineer. Aye ! To get at the bottom of 
this general's silence. 

The Sentry. What will you do? 

The Captain. Intercept the messenger, here, 
when he returns. 

The Sentry. And if you find nothing? 

The Captain. We are only too sure of reading 
treason. 

The Mutineer. If you could see how the general 
looks at us ! 

The Sentry. Well, what then? 

The Captain. Then we will hold him, while one 
of our own number sees the government at Philadel- 
phia. 

Alan. (Coming forward) I beg your pardon, 
but you're making an awful mistake, when you keep 
talking about Philadelphia. Don't you mean Wash- 
ington ? 

The Mutineer. (Snarling) Washington! 

The Captain. (Astounded) Washington! 

The Sentry. (Surprised) Washington! 

Alan. (Explaining) The government. 

The Mutineer. Ho ! What fine young patriot 
is this, with his Washingtons ! Are you made of 
iron that you can stand his government any longer ? 

The Captain. (Advancing threateningly) Are 
you his partisan? 

Alan. Why, no. I meant the place. (They look 
at one another, puzzled) 

The Sentry. What's this? 

Alan. But come to think of it, you're not very 
fair to him. (The Mutineers close angrily about 
him, but he goes on bravely) He's not to blame 
for war being the beastiv thinof it is. 



20 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

The Mutineer. (Snarling) Nay! 

Alan. No, it's you. Why didn't you keep out 
of it in the first place? All of you. If you don't 
find it so pleasant now, you haven't the ricrht to 
whine 

The Captain. Who whines about the war? 

Alan. Well, aren't you planning mutiny to end 
it? 

The Captain. God, no ! End the struggle, not 
having won! 

Alan. But I thought 

The Captain. Listen, boy. There's not a man 
among us but would starve and freeze unto his 
death, gladly and smiling, for America. 'Tis that 
this general comes between us and our war ! — 

Alan. Your war 

The Captain. Aye, ours. 

The Mutineer. And of our women, whose 
prayers for it daily rise to God. 

The Sentry. And of our children, who belike 
shall walk free and unmolested into the paths of 
time. 

Alan. I thought it was ahvays a plan of states- 
men and generals, into Vv^hich the people are blindly 
forced, unable to help themselves. 

The Sentry. (With pitying condescension) 
How little you know, lad. 

Alan. (Slo7vly) I guess you're right. 

(Now from the left, a third man joins them, drag- 
ging with him a frightened hoy in uniform.) 

The Newcomer. Here's the messenger. He'll 
tell nothing. 

The Captain. So? Why not? 

The Messenger. Sir, I am ignorant of what the 
letters contained ! 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 21 

First Mutineer. {Sneering) Know you 
whether or not you came from Congress? 

The Messenger. Yes, I did ! 

The First Mutineer. And saw no enemy 
meanwhile ? 

The Messenger. No. — {The second mutineer 
shakes him) No! Sirs, believe me — {The man 
releases him, and he falls moaning) God help me, 
what have I done? 

The Captain. Rise ! {The Messenger struggles 
to his feet) You'd have us believe you a loyal 
fellow ? 

The Messenger. Yes, I am 

The Captain. Very well. — Hand me the answer. 

The Messenger. The what, sir? 

The Captain. His answer to your letter. 

The Messenger. But 

The First Mutineer. Now! 

The Second Mutineer. Do as you're bid! 

The Messenger. But I've not got it. 

The Captain. How? 

The Second Mutineer. He lies, captain. 

The Messenger. Nay 

The Second Mutineer. I causiht him comin'T 
from the general's hut. 

The First Mutineer. Ah, the dog ! {He strikes 
the messenger to his knees again) 

The Captain. {Bending over the messenger) 
Now — explain. 

The Messenger. 'Tis true the general sent for 
me. 

The Captain. What then? 

The Messenger. But he was not in his hut. T — 
I questioned his guard. They said that just before, 
he had walked away — reading a paper as he went — 

The First Mutineer. Truly, our general seems 
distraueht ' 



22 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS CzO 

The Messenger. — That doubtless I should wait 
for him 

The Captain. And why did you not? 

The Messenger. I thought to find him in the 
encampment. — He had bidden me come in haste, 
'twould have saved him time. — 

The First Mutineer. In haste, mark you ! 

The Second Mutineer. A mere word of thanks 
to Congress hurried so ! 

The Sentry. (Wagging his head) There be 
deeds afoot we do not understand. 

The Captain. We must get that letter (He 
turns to the rnntineers) Lift the fellow up. (They 
obey) Now, messenger, hark to me. If I let you 
seek the general, there will be no hint of us in your 
discourse. Only that you receive his paper, and re- 
turn with it to this place. 

The Messenger. You would take it from me 
then. 

The Captain. Else we rob you of your life — 
now. (The messenger hesitates) Come! It is our 
bargain with you. 

The Messenger. Nay, you can kill me ' VA not 
do it! 

The Captain. Consider! 

The Messenger. But Til tell — (He suddenly 
breaks from them and rims. When he has reached 
the upper left-hand corner, they catch him. Under 
their blows, he falls in a dark heap, and lies still) 

Alan. (Horrified) You killed him. 

The Captain. It was his own choice. 

The Sentry. And not so silly, either; bringing 
himself snugly to the everlasting fires. 

The First Mutineer. (Looking up from the 
prostrate body) He's not dead. 

The Sentry. Ah? Then I rejoiced for him too 
soon. 

The Second Mutineer. Worse luck ! 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 23 

Captain. All the same, I wish we had been more 
patient with him. For now the letter may slip 
through our fingers. 

The First Mutineer. We'll find another way 
to get it. 

The Second Mutineer. There is always open 
mutiny. 

The Captain. But the soldiers are weak. 
There'll be no flame without the spark to kindle it. 

The Second Mutineer. (Shaking his head) 
Aye, true. 

The Sentry. (Listening suddenly) Hark! 
Someone comes ! (He points with his bayonet to- 
ward center, hack) 

The Captain. (To The First Mutineer) 
See who it is. 

(The First Mutineer rnns to the hack, separates 
the curtains and peers out, then turns zvith a 
gesture of excitement.) 

The First Mutineer. The general! 

The Captain. Himself? 

The First Mutineer. Aye, and alone. He 
comes from the huts. 

The Sentry. Alone ! 

The Second Mutineer. Into our hands ! 

The Captain. Praise the Lord ! 

The First Mutineer. (Coming down to him) 
Shall we attack him? 

The Captain. Wait. First, carry that fellow 
off. Beyond the thicket, there to the left. — (The 
two mutineers lift the messenger. The Captain 
comes and puts his hand on the Sentry's shoulder) 
We can trust you, Jonas? 

The Sentry. Oh, I'll be silent. 

The Captain. (To Alan) And you? 

Alan. It's none of my business, I suppose. 



24 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

The Captain. Good. And Vm for a look up 
and down the road. We've scant desire for inter- 
ruptions. (He disappears through the entrance at 
the right) 

Alan. {To the Sentry, uneasily) Maybe, I 
ought to go, too. — 

The Sentry. (Low) Be quiet. 

(Then in the hush that falls on the stage, the cur- 
tains at the back open slightly, and the General 
comes through. It is needless to describe the 
majesty of him, in spite of his worn clothes 
and the sadness of his face. Imjnediately the 
Sentry stiffens to attention. The General 
comes slozvly down-stage , looking from the 
Sentry to Alan. When Alan meets the 
piercing gaze, he is at a loss to know what to 
say. On an impulse, he steps up to the Gen- 
eral, and bows.) 

Alan. (Respectfully) How do you do. — 

The General. (Inclining his head, with the 
suspicion of a swJle) We have met before? 

Alan. (Embarrassed) Why, no, sir. (He 
gathers up his courage) But — but the last time I 
saw you, you were crossing the Delaware. 

The General. There was a great deal of ice in 
the water. 

Alan. Yes. You've had it to contend with ever 
since, haven't you? 

(A look of pain crosses the General's face.) 

The General. There's no denying that. (At 
this moment, the Captain returns) Captain! 

(The Captain hesitates, and then salutes.) 

The Captain. Sir. 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 25 

The General. I come from inspecting the huts 
and the outposts of the camp. 

The Captain. They are not a pleasant sight. 

The General. Indeed, no. 

The Captain. As I told you before, sir. 

The General, (Looking at him sharply) True. 

The Captain. Yet you will not find us helpless, 
general. Our desperation gives us courage ; there is 
stiil action in some of us. 

The General. I have noticed signs of that. 
(The tzvo mutineers return. They stand without 
saluting, silently at the left. The General looks 
at them, then turns tranquilly back to the Captain. 
Only a nezv edge has crept into his quiet voice) 
You seem the leader of the — active party, captain. 
Therefore I have a task for you. Take those men 
whose spirits are most high on a search for forage 
through the countryside. Go at once — the urgency — 

The Captain. (Losing some of his control) 
You think to have us out of your way 

(The mutineers move nearer.) 

The General. I give you orders, sir. 

The Captain. (Coming close to him, with fury) 
No! 

The General. Stand away. 

The Captain. (Not moving) Would you 
leave? You need not hurry from us, general. 
There is no messenger waiting in your but. 

Th:e General. My messenger ! 

The Captain. Shall I tell you where he is? 
Convicted of treason, he lies — as it is the fate of all 
traitors to lie 

The General. Ah. You speak as if you meant 
to sweep the camp. (He folds his cloak about him) 
Why trouble? Starvation does the work for you, 
if you wait. 



26 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

The First Mutineer. (Coming down to him) 
And suppose we will not wait for starvation, — ^ir? 

{The General turns to him, and speaks with a 

little sigh.) 

The General. I fear it would not tax your 
patience. 

The First Mutineer. There is a shorter way. 
• The General. Indeed? 

The Captain. General ! Do you plan to sell us 
to the enemy? 

{The General, qiiite silent, raises his eyebrows. At 
last he anszvers.) 

The General No. 

The Captain. Then give us the paper that yo'i 
have upon you. 

The General. Sir, it is addressed to Congress. 

First Mutineer. Give us proof ! 

The Second Mutineer. Aye ! 

The Captain. You hear them, general. They 
are desperate men, and this is a lonely outpost. It 
were well to obey. 

The General. It is not your business to know. 

The Captain. Nor yours to court mutiny. 

The Mutineer. The paper ! — The paper ! 

{The General stands silent.) 

The Sentry. {Coming forward, still awed) 
'Tis only fair, sir, what they ask of you. Here are 
no traitors, but loyal fellows — a bit sick with the 
cold, mayhap, but wishing the right thing done. 
{He pauses, abashed) 

The General. {Looking at him) Go on. 

The Sentry. They had your promise for relief. 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 2j 

You wrote — was it to Congress ? In time an answer 
came — was it from Congress ? The men have waited 
all day for you to speak to them — waited in the 
snow, dreaming dreams of comfort. And you will 
not say one word. 

The General. I had my reason for refusal. 

The First Mutineer. (Snarling) Aye, we 
know that ! 

The Captain. No more words, general! 

The First Mutineer. But the paper ! 

The Second Mutineer. Aye, show it to us ! 

The Sentry. For God's sake, sir, take heed of 
them ! 

Alan. I would, if I were you! 

(The General looks round at them all. At last he 
speaks, in the same quiet tone.) 

The General. If my silence would benefit you, 
I would still be silent. But with your confidence im- 
paired, the paper makes no difference. (He calmly 
produces the letter) Here it is. 

(The Captain seizes it, and the others crowd round 
him, all hut Alan, who nevertheless is zi'atch- 
ing, very much thrilled,) 

The Captain. Ah ! 

The First Mutineer. Read it, captain. 

The Second Mutineer. Tell us what it says. 

The Captain. (Breaking the seal) Your 
pardon, Congress! (He begins to read) 

Alan. (Low, to the Sentry) I don't believe 
there's anything in it. Anyway, I never heard 

The Captain. (Suddenly) But this is to Con- 
gress. 

The First Mutineer. What! 

The Sentry. God be praised ! 



28 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

Alan. I told you so. 

The Captain. (Running through the pages) 
And — {Incredulous horror gives way to anger on 

his face) 

The Second Mutineer. What's wrong? 

The Captain. They refused us, the pigs ! (He 
lets the sheets drop from his hand and they scatter 
over the snozv) 

The General. (Qnietly) Aye. 

The Captain. (Stunned) Our government re- 
fused us help. 

(Alan picks up the letter page lying nearest him, 

and reads it.) 

The General. Blame them not overmuch. They 
have not understood. 

The Captain. (Turning on him) So? — you 
side with them, general. True, they had only your 
description of our plight. Mayhap you were loath 
to trouble their minds with such poor dirt as we 
are ! 

Alan. (Coming forward with his page) Look 
here, you people ! You let me read you what your 
general said about you, just before you wanted to 
kill him. I guess you'll be ashamed. 

The Sentry. (Quickly) What's that, lad? 

Alan. Listen: — (He reads) ''I can assure 
those gentlemen, that it is a much easier and less 
distressing thing to draw remonstrances in a com- 
fortable room by a good fireside, than to occupy a 
cold, bleak hill, and sleep under frost and snow, 
without clothes or blankets. However, although 
they seem to have little feeling for the naked and 
distressed soldiers, I feel superabundantly for them, 
and, from my soul, I pity those miseries, which it 
is neither in my power to relieve or prevent." 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 29 
(A pause,) 

The Captain. We have been quite wrong, all 
through. 

Alan. Yes ! Why don't you apologize ? 

The Captain. (With a wry smile) If only we 
could. 

The First Mutineer. Yet who would have 
suspected that the government 

The Second Mutineer. When we die for 
them 

The General. (Raising his hand) You do not 
die for them ! They are in service, as well as you ; 
they work, as much as you, for the selfsame end, 
For the United States — the safety of your soil, and 
the dignity of your children. And if perchance thev 
blunder, even as now, — why, so may you, and I. 
And woe to him who dares confound the spirit with 
the fault. (He pauses, and his voice grozvs more 
gentle) Oh, I knew you well, — my children. You 
patriots with a white flame burning in your hearts. 
Do you wonder I was loath to blacken that, with the 
soot of this mistake? I want you to see your way, 
as clearly through to victory, as ever you did before. 

The Sentry. Sir, we will try. 

The First Mutineer. Aye, we know what it is 
to be mistaken. 

(The Captain pulls his sword from his sheath, and 
offers it to the General.) 

The Captain. My sword, general. 

The General. Keep it. There are villains enow 
to threaten with it still. 

The Captain. (Surprised) You — you will take 
no toll of us ? 

The General. But I shall ask a favor of you. 
Tell the poor, discontented beggars yonder — (He 



30 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

points off toward the huts) that our relief has been 
delayed. From you they will believe it, however 
mutinous they be. And help will come this time, 
ere they learn the difference. 

The Captain. You think so, sir? 

The General. I am sure. 

The Captain. Then I can pacify the men. They 
will endure a little longer. And if I still have your 
permission to forage 

The General. Collect your troop. 

The Captain. I thank you. {He turns to the 
mutineers) Come. 

(The three of them salute, and disappear at the left. 
The General walks to the corner, and takes 
lip a posture zvith one foot on the ice-rakes. 
He is lost in meditation. Meanwhile, Ai.an 
picks up the papers.) 

Alan. {To the Sentry) Isn't it great that's 
over? (Byt the Sentry is stiff at attention. Alan 
goes over to him, and digs him in the ribs) Say 

The Sentry. {Lozv) Marry, now that I am 
no longer a mutineer, I must needs stand at atten- 
tion. 

Alan. {Looking at the Gea^eral) Oh, — for 
him? 

The Sentry. Aye. 

Alan. (Hero-worship beginning) He's wonder- 
ful ! (He rem.embers the papers in his hands) I 
must fix these — (An idea comes to him. He goes 
and touches the General on the arm) 

The General. (Turning) Lad? 

(They come dozvn-stage.) 

Alan. They've taken your messenger. 
The General. Aye, poor fellow. 
Alan. Well, of course, he's not dead ; but he is 
out of commission. 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 31 

The General. So it would seem. 
Alan. Wouldn't I do? 
The General. You. 

Alan. Fd like to carry that letter on to Phila- 
delphia. 

{The General looks at him for a long moment.^ 

The General. But you are not of our army. 

Alan. {Hanging his head) No. I never wanted 
to be, before. I guess I — I didn't realize how much 
I owed to you folks for letting me call myself an 
American citizen, all puffed up, the way I did when 
I wandered in here. {He raises his head high) But 
I know nov/. You've got to earn the right to say 
that, and you've got to keep it meaning something, 
because the fellow you say it to isn't frightened of 
your voice, or of you, but of what it m.eans. And 
when you do all that, — why, that's fighting for your 
country ! 

The General. {Gently) Yes. 

Alan. Well, I never have, but I want to. 
Mayn't I take your letter? 

The General. Do you know the way? 

Alan. I'm not sure. But my father'^: father 
lived in Philadelphia. I think I could find it. 

The General. {Extending his hand) Then — 

go- 

Alan. {Scarcely believing his ears) To Phil- 
adelphia ? 

The General. To Philadelphia. 

Alan. {Pressing his hand) Oh, thanks! — {He 
turns and runs out past the motionless Sentry) 

The General. {Thinking himself alone) Lord, 
deliver us ! 

The curtain falls. 



32 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

ACT n 

SOMEWHERE IN THE LAND 

THE CHARACTERS 

V 

Philip Braith 
The Black Man 
Maria NNA 
Alan 

Scene: Across the curtains at the hack is set a 
high zvhite wall with a green gate in it 
Wistaria climbs over the whiteness here and 
there. A white marble bench and sundial, at 
opposite sides of the stage, mark the place as an 
old garden. Over everything, the di^n light 
throbs green, as from a fnll moon long since 
waned. 

When the curtain rises, a dark figure is 
crouching on the bench. There comes a knock 
at the gate. A silence, and then the knock is 
repeated. The figure on the bench nwans 
plaintively. 

The Black Man. Lawd deliber ine. — Lawd 
deliber me. — Lawd deliber me. 

(Again the knock. The black man titters a muffed 
sob of terror. Then the gate is slowly pushed 
open, and Alan looks in.) 

Alan. Ls anyone there? (Dead silence. He 
steps in a little farther) I thought I heard a voice. 
(He approaches the bench, and sees the black man) 
Oh, there you are ! Will you please tell me 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 33 

The Black Man. (In a shriek) Doan' take me 
back, massa ! Doan' make me go ! 

Ai.AN. Haven't you got me mixed up with some- 
body else? I only want to ask if this is Philadelphia. 

The Black Man. Oh, dey done foun' me — dey 
done look 

Alan. (Putting his hand on him) See here, — 
(He draws back his hand) What's the matter with 
your back? 

The Black Man. Oh, Gawd, massa 

Alan. I felt it under your rags. It's— rough. 

The Black Man. Dis time dey kill me sah! 
Dey'U beat me daid ! 

Alan. (Horrified) Beat you! Well, what sort 
of anim.als live in this house, anyway? To treat a 
a man like that! You just let me at 'em. vTell me 
where they are. 

The Black Man. Not here, massa! — (Relief 
comes into his tremhling voice) I reckon you doan' 
know 

Alan. Well, I bet you ran away. 

The Black Man. Dey — didn't send you — after 
me? 

Alan. Of course not! I haven't any idea who 
" they " are. (An awful thought comes to him) 
Look here ! Have you murdered anyone ? 

The Black Man. Oh, no, massa ! No, no, no — 

Alan. What did you do? 

The Black Man. (Dully) Run away. 

Alan. But what from? 

The Black Man. Slavery. — (A fresh burst of 
terror seizes him) Oh, Lawd deliber me ! — Lawd — 

Alan. Slavery! 

The Black Man. — Lawd hab mercy ! 

Alan. Slavery! (Suddenly he listens, looking 
over by the sundial) A person coming ! Goodness 
knows who. — You get behind the bench — quick. 



34 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

The Black Man. {Rising) Bless you, massa — 

bless 

A Girl's Clear Voice. {From the right) 

Phil ! 

{The black man disappears.) 

Alan. {Whispering over the bench to him) 
Keep quiet ! {Then he gets off the bench again, and 
stands trying to look as if nothing had happened. 
The girl enters, and pauses by the sundial. She is 
tall and dark and scornful, stately in spite of the 
lavender crinoline zvhich billows about her) 

The Girl. Phil, is it you? — ^Oh! 

Alan. {Embarrassed) Fve got to beg your 
pardon. 

The Girl. What did you wish, sir? 

Alan. Why, — only to ask if I'm in Philadelphia. 

The Girl. I can give you that assurance. 

(Alan, still bewildered, staring at her costume, be- 
gins to understand.) 

Alan. Thank you, I — I guess I am finding out 
where I am ! 

The Girl. Can I guide you more? 

Alan. You're kind. If you'd tell me where Con- 
gress meets 

The Girl. Sir, what did you say? 

Alan. Congress. — The government. 

The Girl. But it's in Washington, the govern- 
ment ! 

Alan. Well, that's what I tried to tell them, 
back at Valley Forge. Anyhow, I've got to find it. 

The Girl. You're a strange boy. 

Alan. I guess I seem crazy. But thank you for 
putting up with me. And please forgive me for 
breaking into your garden. 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 35 

The Girl. {Putting out her hand to him) 
Certainly, sir. 

Alan. (Shyly, taking her hand) My name is 
Alan Braith. 

The Girl. {With a little cry of surprise) 
Braith? 

Alan. Yes, why? 

The Girl. {Smiling) I took you for a man 
named that, when I came into the garden. 

Alan. Did you? {His smile gives way to re- 
membrance) You said ''Phil" — {And the re- 
membrance to amazement) Why, that would make : 
Philip Braith! 

The Girl. It does. 

Alan. {Slowly) Philip Braith — here. 

The Girl. Perhaps you both belong to the same 
family. 

Alan. I — I guess we do ! {She watches him, 
surprised) At any rate, that was the — name — of 
my — grandfather 

{The gate is thrown open suddenly, and a boy only 
a -few years older than Alan conies swinging 
into the garden. He is very excited. His 
clothes are braid-bound, and he wears a black 
stock and longish hair.) 

The Boy. Marianna ! 

Alan. {Turning back to her) Oh! And you — 
you — ! {He breaks off. The girl, paying no more 
heed to him, crosses to the other's waiting embrace. 
Alan goes to the bench, and sits watching) 

Marianna. Phil I — {She raises her face to his) 
I've waited long for you to-night. 

Philip. I know. But there is news. 

Marianna. About the trouble? 

Philip. It's to be war, Marianna. 

Marianna. Oh! There has been dread in my 
heart 



36 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

Philip. That I must hurt you ! 

Marianna. Black dread. 

Philip. I know. It comes creeping into our 
plans — our little plans that were so dear. 

Marianna. It floats between you and me like a 
dark fog. 

.Philip. (Raising his head, zvith wonder) And 
almost hides the moon. 

M ARiANNA. {Shaking the fear away) That is 
only if we let it, Phil ! 

Philip. What can we do ? I shall have to go — • 

Marianna. Is there no way? 

Philip. (Hesitating) There has been talk of 
, hiring substitutes. 

Marianna. (Gladly) Ah! Then we are happy 
again! (He is still hesitant and unresponsive) 
Why not? You an orphan, and so rich. 

Philip. I could send a dozen in my place 

Marianna. Yes ! 

Philip. (With a hint of self -scorn) I who am 
young and strong. 

Marianna. Phil ! (^She turns away from him) 

Philip. And I've no kin to hold me back — nor 
even as yet a wife. 

Marianna. Do you m.ake so much distinction be- 
tween a love in April and a wife in Time? 

Philip. Oh, no ! 

(But Marianna walks away from him, and stands 
fingering the sundial,) 

Marianna. (At last, low) You want — to enter 
— this war. 

Philip. (Follozving her) Oh, would you call 
me any less your lover, if I did? War is a m.an's 
part to do when there is need. — 

Marianna. And what is a woman's part? 

Philip. (Close beside her) Dear, — to wait. 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 37 
Marianna. And you expect me- 



Philip. Can we not share the war, as we have 
shared our love ? 

Marianna. (Passionately) Why should we? 
Is it ours to share? If you went, you would not 
fight for me, but for another race — unrelated. And 
go invading other men's homes, when no invader 
threatens the roof-tree of our dreams. 

Philtp. Marianna 

Marianna. (Very proud) Hark to me. If 
you should do this thing, battling for a cause quite 
alien to you, you need never return to me when it is 
done. I will not wait for one in whose eyes I am 
a toy to be laid aside. 

Philip. (Stern) Hard words — from you. 

Marianna. (Softening to him instantly) Our 
happiness means more to me than a hundred wars. 

Philip. Your words are childish, too. 

Marianna. No child can love like this ! 

Philip. (Shaken) But — my country claims me. 

Marianna. You forget. She will accept another 
in your place. Not I — so readily. 

Philip. (With a trace of bitterness) You, who 
say you will not w^ait. 

Marianna. (Turning a little from him) Oh! 
You didn't use to care so little. (Getting no re- 
sponse, she says^ looking about her) It was hard 
to win me — in the old days. Many came through 
the green gate when the moon was high, and sat 
beside me there, or stood to read the dial's v/ise oM 
words. You were one of them — one ! (She laughs 
uncertainly) Then the garden heard a different 
story fiom to-night. 

Philip. (Sharply, as if hurt) Marianna ! 

Marianna. Ah, you remember ! 

Philip. I remember. 

Marianna. I was treasured of you then. 



38 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

Philip. (Responding, half against his will) 
You are so dear now 

Marianna {Coining close to him suddenly) 
Can you still see the moon ? 

Philip. {Wondering) Yes. It shines through 
the dread of war. 

Marianna. Oh, look at it ! It paints sweet 
shadows in the curves of my lips, and turns to jet 
the little locks of my hair. Did you know it was 
doing it all for you? And it dances in silver rays 
on the words that pass between us — all for you 

Philip. {Coming nearer) Your voice is soft 
and low 

Marianna. You are ungrateful to the moon. 

Philip. {Gathering her into his arms) No, 
sweet ! 

Marianna. {Low) You will not leave me, 
Phil? 

Philip. {Laughing) The substitute can go. 

Marianna. Promise 

Philip. I promise — by the moon! {Laughing 
happily, they cross the stage together) 

Marianna. {Meanwhile) Then come! — for we 
can dream again. {As they draw near to the bench, 
Alan rises to m^eet them) 

Alan. Excuse me, but this war — it's going to 
free the slaves, isn't it ? 

Philip. Yes. 

Alan. Well, do you mind if I tell? There's 
someone here that will be glad enough to know. 
{He climbs on the bench again, and calls over the 
back) Hey! — come out now. 

{The black man shuffles out from his hiding. When 
he sees Philip and Marianna, he shrinks back 
against Alan.) 

Marianna. {A little frightened) Who is that? 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 39 

Alan. A slave. I found him hiding in your 
garden. 

(Philip has drawn away from Marianna, and 
approaches the black man, as if fascinated by 
the sight of him.) 

Philip. A slave? 

The Black Man. (As he comes nearer) Lawd, 
Lawd hab mercy 

i\LAN. Don't be afraid. {The black man ceases 
to moan) Didn't you hear what my — what this 
man said just now? All you people are going to be 
made free. 

Tpie Black Man. {Scarcely able to comprehend) 
Free? Oh, massa, massa 

Alan. Well, first it will take a lot of fighting. 

The Black Man. Who gwine fight — for us? 

Alan. Oh, everybody. 

{The black man falls sobbing to his knees. '^) 

The Black Man. Free — free — free 

Alan. {Over his head, to Philip) No wonder 
he's glad. Look what they did to him. 

Philip. {Staring down) Yes. I see. 

Alan. He ran away. Can they come and get 
him? 

Philip. They shall not get him. 

Alan. No. Wouldn't it be awful? 

{The black man looks up at Philip.) 

The Black Man. Strong young massa, you 
gwine sabe me You gwine fight ! — 
Philip. {Slowly) Not I. 

The Black Man. But he say 

Philip. Other people will. 



40 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

The Black Man. {Despair returning) I 
reckon nobody wants to — jes' like you. 
Philip. But I — (He catches himself) 
The Black Man. It ain't to be. It ain't to be ! 
(Suddenly he clings to Philip's knees) Why 
doan' you help de suffering massa? Why? 

(Philip puts one hand on the black man's shoulder, 
a?id stretches the other out toward Marianna.) 

Philip. (After a little pause) Marianna' 

Marianna. (Who has stood aside) Yes? 

Philip. Why do you come no nearer? 

Marianna. Because the man is wretched. 

Philip. True enough. The marks of his master's 
lash are on him still, and the fear in his heart is 
greater than your fear. 

Marianna. And what is that to me? 

Philip. Did you hear w^hat he said? 

Marianna. I heard. 

Philip. And it is nothing to you? 

Marianna. Nothing. 

Philip. Can't you be sorry for him — so sorry 
that your throat tightens, and your fists clench — 
until you understand? 

Marianna. I am sorry for him, but I do not 
understand. 

Philip. See. The welts on his back are curved 
more than your lips, and his rags hang down like 
the little locks of your hair. The agony of his cry 
rings clearer to me than the soft notes in your voice. 
He needs me more than you. 

Marianna. (Quick and low) You promised 
me — you would not go to war. 

Philip. My duty to him is greater than my duty 
to you, Marianna. 

Marianna. Your substitute goes fourth to fight 
for him. What do you owe him more ? 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 41 

Philip. There would be a place for me by the 
side of my substitute. We could do more work to- 
gether ! 

Marianna. You promised me. 

Philip. Half doubting, while I did. 

Marianna. A promise is a promise. 

Philip. For the sake of hundreds like this man, 
let me take it back. 

Marianna. Do you care so little? 

Philip. Care for you? So much that I want to 
be worthy of you, Marianna. 

Marianna. I am satisfied, as you are. 

Philip. But 

Marianna. And I want you ! 

The Black Man. Lawd, Lawd, deliber me. — 
Lawd 

Philip. Listen. 

Marianna. He is not calling on you. 

Philip. No. This time, / am the substitute. 

Marianna. What do you mean? 

Philip. That I must go, Marianna. It isn't 
possible for me to sit still in a country torn asunder. 
All the substitutes my wealth could send vv^ould only 
make so many more men braver than I, to sneer at 
me. And from my marriage with you would come 
a race of cowards. (Marianna turns away, hiding 
her face in her hands. Philip waits, made hopeful 
by her emotion. Alan, stung by his words, takes 
a step forward) 

Alan. Oh, Fm not a coward, I didn't realize — 

{But Philip doesn't heed him, because Marianna 
has touched him on the arm.) 

Marianna. (Softly) Can you no longer see the 
moon? 

Philip. I see a great light, streaming from ahead. 
But I think it is not the moon. 



42 TI-IE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

Marianna. Does it shine on me? 

Philip. If you stand by my side, it will shine on 
yon. 

Marianna. (Gently) The moon is here. 

Philip. This seems to come from a torch 

Alan. (Enlightened) Oh! You mean Liberty, 
don't you ? 

Philip, (Exalted) That's it ! 

Marianna. Think of the dear past. 

Philip. I can't. It blinds me. — 

Marianna. (With a little despairing cry) Oh! 

Philip. But I can see the future — wonderful — 

Marianna. (Clinging to him) Phil! Phil! 
Listen to me 

Philip. (Gently) Afterwards. 

(Beaten, Marianna turns away again.) 

Alan. And I thought you couldn't help your- 
self ! 

(Marianna, mistress of her emotion, comes and 
faces Philip.) 

Marianna. If you take back your word, I will 
not take back mine. 

Philip. (Waking from the vision) Marianna! 

Marianna. Choose. 

Philip. You see no reason in my going to war ? 

Marianna. No. 

Philip. You will not wait for me? 

Marianna. No. 

Philip. When I am gone, you will not think of 
me? 

Marianna. No. 

Philip. Not even — ^kindly, as of a friend that 
is dead? 

Marianna. If — you have made your choice. 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 43 

Philip. Then God help me, Marianna. For I 
shall go lonely into battle, and hope at the end for 
death. 

Marianna. Death may be sweet to one who 
esteems not riches and love. I cannot say. 

Philip. Love? Do you think — {He breaks off 
hopelessly) Well, we'll not talk of that. 

Marianna. Lest it be desecrated by blood- 
thirsty lips! 

Philip. {Bowing his head) As you will. (A 
pause. Then he speaks, quietly and sadly) The 
future I saw ahead isn't for me. {He stoops and 
touches the black man on the shoulder) But you, 
my friend ! It's your turn, and I hope you enjoy it. 

The Black Man. Bless you, sah! 

Philip. Marianna ! Now that you are lost to 
me, there is no one to live upon my lands. When I 
am gone, will you see that they are turned over to 
the government for its need? Will you do me this 
last favor? 

Marianna. You will have nothing, if you should 
come back. 

Philip. I shall try not to come back — very hard 

Marianna. Oh. 

Philip. Marianna, I am going now. God bles5 
you, oh, my dearest, — {He starts to take her hand, 
but she moves away) Not even — for farewell? 

Marianna. Choose. (Philip stares at her a 
moment. Then, head high, he turns and walks oat 
of the garden. The green gate closes behind him. 
Marianna draws one long breath that holds a 
stifled sob) 

Alan. {Coming forward) Oh, look here! 
You aren't going to let him go like that ! 

Marianna. And why not? 

Alan. Well, it's awfullv mean. Even if vou 
weren't just putting it on, it would be bad enough. 
Why, I'm ashamed of you, grandmo — Marianna ! 



44 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

Marianna. How dare you say that I pretend? 

Alan. Because you feel so badly. {She makes 
a gesture of denial) Oh, yes, you do ! Why didn't 
you let him say good-bye? Were you afraid you'd 
jump into his arms and cry there? 

Marianna. No! No. 

Alan. Why won't you call him back? 

Marianna. {Haughtily) Because I — won't. 

Alan. Isn't that like a girl ! 

Marianna. {Facing him scornfully) What do 
you know about girls? 

Alan. Plenty, I can tell you! {She laughs. 
Whereupon he grows more excited, and begins to 
pace the garden during his confession) You needn't 
laugh. Girls don't know their own minds half the 
time, and they quarrel for nothing. V/hy, I took a 
girl to a dance once, and she gave me the bow ofif 
her slipper for a keepsake 

Marianna Did she? 

Alan. {Not to he stopped) Yes ! And I lost it 
the first thing. I said I never would, but I did. And 
she wouldn't speak to me again. That's what I 
know — {He stops short in his pacing, to pick up an 
object he has almost stepped on. Amaized, he holds 
out to Marian na's gaze the zvhite rosette of a 
slipper. Then, suddenly chuckling, he puts it awav 
in his pocket) Just you wait till I get home! — 

Marianna. Oh! You will mend your quarreJ. 

Alan. Yes, and you must mxcnd yours. 

Marianna. It was not of my making. He broke 
his word to me. 

Alan. {Hardly realizing what he says) But 
don't you see that he was right f 

Marianna. You say that? 

Alan. Yes. — Why, — why, I — (It daimis on him 
that he has changed his views. But that does not 
alter his decision) Yes, I do ! 

Marianna. You — hesitate. 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 45 

Alan. Well, I'll tell you. I always thought it 
was foolish to mix into another person's fight. 
Oppression's too bad, but — if you stamp it out in 
one form, it comes back in another. But don't you 
see, — when you've got it right in your own country, 
and you can't legislate it out, — why, then, you've 
just got to pitch in and kill it. It isn't a question 
of the other person any more, Marianna, it's the 
safety of your own country ; and I found out back in 
Valley Forge what that can mean to anyone ! 

Marianna. Valley Forge was long ago. 

Alan. Why, — it doesn't seem so. I guess wear's 
all terrible. I guess it's all pretty much alike. 
Only, back there, the men said it was the prayers of 
their womenfolk that kept them from dying of 
misery. And you've let your man go heartbroken; 
and if you pray for him, he'll never know it. 

Marianna. I will not pray for him. 

Alan. You know better, — Marianna ! 

Marianna. (Turning away) Oh. 

Alan. Every day you'll get sorrier and sorrier, 
thinking of him. 

Marianna. (Lozv) Be still. 

Alan. And you'll never go to sleep without 
meeting him in all your dreams. 

Marianna. Go away. 

Alan. Maybe you won't sleep at all. 

The Black Man. Lawd deliber me. — Lawd de- 
liber 

Alan. (Approaching Marianna) You had 
better ask to be delivered, too, out of your cruelty. 

Marianna. (Turning on him) Oh, will you let 
m.e be ? 

Alan. Not till you call back Philip Braith, and 
tell him that you love him. 

Marianna. I will not call him back. 

Alan. It may not be too late. Won't you let me 
go and see? 



46 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

Marianna. No. 

Alan. {Desperately) But — youVe got to in the 
end. 

Marianna. Why? 

Alan. Because, sooner or later, he'll find you 
out. 

Marianna. If you told him, he would not believe 
you. 

'Alan. And what about the time when he comes 
home? 

Marianna. He — may — not 

Alan. {Laughing suddenly) But he will ! And 
then what are you going to do ? 

Marianna. Sufficient unto the day is the evil 
thereof. 

Alan. {Reproachfully) Oh, grandmo — Mari- 
anna! Don't try to be so heartless. If you've got 
to marry him some day, why not spare him all the 
pain he's suffering now? 

Marianna. Marry him — now? 

Alan. Even yet. You wait. 

Marianna. {Scornful) So you can read the 
future. 

Alan. {Nodding at her) You see, I come from 
there. 

Marianna. And it holds that Philip and I — that 
we 

Alan. Oh, yes ! 

Marianna. {Still scornful) Next you'll be tell- 
ing m.e that old age will make me beautiful. 

Alan. My father says it did. 

(Marianna stares at him in silence. When she 
speaks J her tone has softened strangely,) 

Marianna. Did your father — know me? 
Alan. Yes, g — Marianna. 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 47 

Marianna. (Slozvly) I think I must have Hked 
your father. 

Alan. (Smiling at her rather shyly) Yes, you 
did. 

Marianna. What — is his name? 

Alan. (Hesitating) Reginald — Philip 

Marianna. (Starting) But that's what Phil and 
I — that's what we would have called 

Alan. Yes, I know. Father always wondered 
why. 

Marianna. (Seeing visions) He thought of 
Reginald, and I wanted the Philip. — 

Alan. It's fun to plan those things. 

Marianna. Oh, you can't imagine 

Alan. You've taken the right away from your- 
self. 

Marianna. But I can't stop. 

Alan. Perhaps he can't, either. It would have 
taken his mind off the horrible war sometimes, to 
make up children's names. But you've taken away 
the right from him, too. 

Marianna. I thought he deserved it. 

Alan. Because he wanted to make a happy 
country for the children he had named. Because — 

Marianna. (With sudden passion) Oh, go! 
Run after him ! 

Alan. (Starting for the gate) What shall I tell 
him? 

Marianna. Say to him that I wait ! 

(Joyfully Alan runs out. We hear his happy voice 
calling down the Land,) 

Alan. Philip Braith— Philip Braith 



(Marianna stands very tall and straight by the 
bench, her white' face uplifted, fighting the tears 



48 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

that run down her cheeks in spite of every- 
thing.) 

The Black Man. (Moaning piteously) Lawd 
deliber me. — Lawd deliber me. — Lawd deliber me. — 

Marianna. (Gently, still fighting the tears) If 
He will only spare — all his children. 

And the curtain falls. 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 49 



ACT HI 

THE EDGE OF THE LAND 

THE CHARACTERS 

Jim 

The Belgian Child 

The English Child 

The Baby From Paris 

The Polish Child 

Other Children 

The Young Man of the Front Page 

Alan 

Scene : The curtains are now colored with a pale 
r6se and violet glow, as if from the reflection 
of a crimson flare a long way off. Diagonally 
across the stage from right to left lies a fallen 
tree ; hut its stump is not there. 

On the trunk of this tree, well front, sits a 
young man in a worn aviator's uniform. He 
holds a child in his arms — a little girl — and is 
looking down at her. His young face is rather 
full, the chin set square, the look in his eyes 
straight and beautiful. Were it not for these 
things, he would resemble more the photograph 
in the prologue. 

He sits there watching the child; with a hand 
on one of her wrists, he holds her little arm 
extended. 

The Young Man. {As if in reverie) If they 
only spared the children — {She stirs, and he lets 
her arm rest on his knee. She opens her eyes and 



50 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

sits up. Then he smiles down at her, a slow, tender, 
radiant smile. The Young Man very gently) 
Hello. {She looks at him with great, zvondering 
eyes) Feels better to be a whole little girl again, 
doesn't it ? 

The Child. Yes. You don't know how to act 
when you're all in pieces. Did you put me together? 

The Young Man. Yes. 

The Child. (Politely) I hope I didn't make 
you too much trouble. 

The Young Man. Of course not. 

The Child. I'm glad some of me didn't get lost 
in coming. It must be a long way — from Belgium. 

The Young Man. Yet we wouldn't have 
Belgium any nearer to this place, would we? 

The Belgian Child. Did you come from there, 
too? 

The Young Man. I flew here out of the air. 

The Belgian Child. High up? 

The Young Man. No, it was down. Down, 
and down, — and down. Very quickly. Rolled in 
a ball of blue sky and red flame mixed together, 
swirling. — 

The Belgian Child. (With a long breath of 
admiration) Oh! 

The Young Man. You might run about a little, 
if you liked. 

The Belgian Child. I don't want to leave you. 

The Young Man. You're all right now. 

The Belgian Child. Yes. You were good to 
me. — What do you call yourself? 

The Young Man. Jim. 

The Belgian Child. Jim. I don't want to leave 
you any more. 

Jim. Then you needn't. I'll adopt you — how will 
that be ? 

The Belgian Child. Oh! For your sister? 

Jim. My kid sister. 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 51 

{She sighs with delight and slips to the grGiind. 
Then, laying one little hand on his knee, she 
asks:) 

The Belgian Child. Have you any other 
sisters? 

Jim. No. {The beautiful smile curves his lips 
again) But once I had a — kid brother. 

The Belgian Child. A baby? 

{He shakes his head and starts to reply, when out 
of the space behind them, a little girl's voice 
comes snftly singing.) 

The Little Voice. 

*'* Lullaby, lullaby, baby dear, 

Take thy rest without a fear " ; — 

{And there enters, not noticing them for her charge, 
a fair-haired girl of about tzvelve, holding in 
her arms an infant. They are hardly related, 
for the baby's long, rich coat falls softly over a 
ragged pinafore and torn stockings. The little 
girl walks carefully across the back of the stage, 
crooning the while.) 

" Quiet sleep, for mother is here, 
Ever wakeful, ever near." — 

{Turning down-stage, past the foliage of the free, 
she becomes aware of the zvatchers. To them she 
says, hastily) Sh! 'E's asleep, 'e is. 

The Belgian Child. Oh, you have one, also ! 
Jim. (To the child, explaining) She means your 
little brother. 

The Little Girl. 'E ain't mine. Vm English. 
Jim. Isn't he? 



52 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

The English Child. No, 'e's a baby from Paris 
that I just found. 'E's so little 'e can't even ta :. 
French 3^et. 

Jim. How do you know he's from Paris? 

The English Child. Lookit 'is style ! 

The Belgian Child. May I play with him? 

The English Child. Some other time. I'd 
mind it if 'e waked. 'Is mother 'asn't come with 
'im, and I'm afraid 'e'd miss 'er, if 'e knew. 

Jim. Is that why you sing to him? 

The English Child. It's fibbin'. But it keeps 
'im 'appy like. {She sits down iff the shade of the 
branches and begins to croon again) — "mother 
is here 

(Now only at intervals, the crooning rises into in- 
telligible words. As she completes this couplet, 
already given, two other tots wander through 
the scene, smiling, hand in hand.) 

Jim. {Watching them) What a lot of you there 
are in this place — you little children. 

The Belgian Child. We keep coming, every 
day. 

Jim. Yes. So many that there ought to be a 
school for you. {He smiles again) My kid brother 
goes to school. 

The English Child. {Looking np) I was in 
a school when I started 'ere. 

Jim. Do you remember that? 

The English Child. The teacher cried. And 
then there was a bang. And the wind blew all the 
way. 

{A little dark-eyed boy, very ragged, rushes in. 
He has something clutched in his hand. Be- 
hind him come two or three others, all peasants, 
trying to see; and the two little tots zcho passed 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 53 

return. The hoy himself is thin, and his eyes 
look out from a dead-white face.) 

Jim. Oh, I remember you. We met the day you 
came. You were looking for food — you couldn't 
forget you didn't have to. 

The Little Boy. It's hard to forget some things. 

Jim. Well, you must have, by now! 

The Little Boy. But I looked again to-day. 

Jim. Why, little chap 

The Little Boy. I like it so much to realize all 
of a sudden, that it won't hurt me, not to find any. 

Jim. Did you find something else? 

The Little Boy. Yes. A hard thing. We don't 
have them in our village. Maybe not in all Poland. 
What is it ? 

Jim. (Taking the thing) Why, I know! (He 
gets up, and stands with all the children looking at 
him. He begins to smile at the object in his hand) 
It's a latch-key ! 

The Polish Child. What's a latch-key? 

(Jim, still smiling ahead of him, tells the hoy. 
There is an odd little throb of grozving pleasure 
in his voice, not at some half-homesick remem- 
brance, bnt as if he recalled a fleeting dream, 
that had once been very pleasant indeed.) 

Jim. You fasten your door with it when you leave 
your house, so that no one can break in and steal 
all your money, and your family silver 

The Belgian Child. A German could get in. 

Jim. Why, yes. I guess he could. 

The Belgian Child. (Wisely) It's no use at 
all. You might just as well throw it away. 

The English Child. (Snddenh raising her 
song) "Lullaby, lullaby, gone is the light " 

Jim. (Putting the key in his pocket) Someone 
will have to see to that. 



54 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

The English Child. (Continuing more sotfly) 
" Yet let not darkness my baby fright " 

{While she sings, a young aviator has entered from 
the right. He walks slowly, almost gropingly, 
looking about him zvith curiosity. When he 
turns his head and sees the back of Jim's 
familiar uniform, the puzzled look in his eyes 
fades a little. He steps over the tree-trunk, 
which brings him face to face with Jim.) 

The Young Man. Well, Braith! 

Jim. {Looking up) Hello ! It's good to see you 
again ! {They shake hands) Didn't know you were 
here. 

The Young Man. Oh, I've just come. Seemed 
pretty strange till I saw a good familiar uniform. 
{He laughs) Guess this means my picture on the 
front page, back home ! I never thought I'd be 
famous enough for that. 

Jim. Your folks will cherish it. 

The Young Man. No. My folks aren't there, 
Braith. Haven't been for years. They won't 
know — {Great joy flashes suddenly over his face) 
Say ! Do you think I can find them ? Do you sup- 
pose I could? 

Jim. Why not? 

The Young Man. But where? Where? 

Jim. Farther along the Land. {He points off to 
the left) 

The Young Man. I'm going to try ! 

Jim. Good luck! 

{Again they clasp hands; and then the young man 
of the front page hurries away. But at the 
opening of the curtains on the left, he is met 
by Alan, who is rushing along in exactly the 
same manner. The young man catches Alan 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 55 

by the shoulders, to prevent a collision. Mean- 
zvhile, the children have closed about Jim, who 
has seated himself on the tree again.) 

The Young Man. I beg your pardon ! 

Alan. {Out of breath) And — I — yours! — 

{They straighten themselves out.) 

The Belgian Child. {To Jim) Show us your 
bright ribbons. — 

{The children cluster about his medals.) 

The Young Man. I was so anxious to find my 
folks. 

Alan. Me, too! 

The Young Man. Really? {His face grows 
pitying, as he glances over his shoulder in the direc- 
tion from which he has come) But I'm afraid it's 
no use for you, if you've reached this far. 

Alan. Why? 

The Young Man. You've come to the Edge of 
the Land. 

Alan. {Very disappointed) Oh! {He adds, 
gloomily) That means I missed him. It's the Land 
Where Lost Things Go, I s'pose I've lost my way. 

The Young Man. Too bad. 

Alan. {On a sudden hope) You haven't seen 
him here, have you? Man named Braith — ? 

The Young Man. {Genially) Braith? What 
luck ! Why, Braith's over there ! {He designates 
the group about the tree) 

Alan. {Pleased) Is he? Thanks a lot. 

The Young Man. Glad to have helped. {He 
goes on his way) 



so THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

(Alan conies toward the group of children, trying 
to see over their heads. But the children are 
absorbed in examining the medals zvhich Jim 
is holding out for their inspection.) 

Alan. (Very superior and impatient, to the 
outermost child) Fd like to get by. 

{At his words, the group slowly divides, all the 
children looking at him and backing away, till 
at last a path is left clear between him and 
Jim.) 

The English Child. {Singing out of the hush) 
" And give thee, smiling, to day and to me " 

(Jim rises and comes forward a few steps, looking 
at Alan intently. Alan, also advancing, starts 
and stops dead. Then, slowly, Jim begins to 
smile. Alan cries out, with the voice of one 
seeing a miracle.) 

Alan. Jim ! 
Jim. Hello, kid. 

(Alan flings himself sobbing into his brother'^s 

arms.) 

Alan. Jim! Jim! {He lifts his head and 
looks at him) It's you. 

Jim. It surely is! 

Alan. And I thought Td never see you again. — 

Jim. Are you glad to? 

Alan. Oh, Jim! 

Jim. Why, so am I ! 

Alan. To see me? 

Jim. You bet. 

Alan. It's wonderful. I was looking for another 
Braith, and I found you, instead. 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 57 

Jim. You never expected me to turn up, like a 
bad penny, here at the Edge of the Land ! 

Alan. ' The Edge— Then that's what the red light 
means. (His eyes are fixed on the glow which 
seems to come from the right) 

Jim. Red light? {He looks over his shoulder) 
Oh, back there. {He turns, and the two 'stare at it 
together) Isn't it a glory? 

Alan. {Putting a hand to his eyes) Not — when 
you face it. 

Tim It is, when you look back. 

Alan. {In a peculiar tone) Is it? 

(Jim turns and meets his puzzled gaze.) 

Jim. Sonny.- — 

Alan. What? 

Jim. What are you doing here? 

Alan. Passine throus^h. 

Jim. But how did you come? 

Alan. {Pointing to the left) Oh, — far corners 
— the cold, and Philadelphia. — 

Jim. And what was going on, to bring you in 
those places ? 

Alan. Well, first I was in Valley Forge. They 
were fighting the Revolution there. Then I came 
to Philadelphia, and found the Civil War had just 
begun. 

Jim. What wars were those? 

Alan. {Amazed) Huh? 

Jim. What wars? 

Alan. {Very distinctly) I said the Revolution 
and the Civil War. 

Jim. I don't rem.ember hearing of them. 

Alan. Why, Jim Braith ! 

Jim. But I don't. Not at all. 

Alan. We were both of us pretty bad at history, 
but, my goodness, everybody's heard those names. — 



S8 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

Tim. Perhaps I did, too. Why have I forgotten? 
Alan, Think. 

Jim. My comrades and I never thought of that! 
Alan. Vv^ell, I know, because I came right 
through them. 

Jim. (Pointing to the right) Not the other way. 
Alan. {Vehemently) I should say not! 

{The children shrink a little away. Jim's straight 
gaze becomes strangely piercing, Alan f.nds 
himself in a second hush, out of which the 
English child is singing.) 

The English Child. " May thy small dreams 
no ill things see," 

Alan. {Turning, suspicious) What does she 
mean ? 

Jim. Her song? 

Alan. About '* small " dreams, — and seeing no 
ill things. — 

Jim. She's protecting the baby. 

Alan. Oh. I thought she was making fun of 
me. {He eyes the group) Awful lot of children. 

Jim. Yes, sonny. 

Alan. My, they must bore you to death! 

Jim. No. 

Alan. V/hatf You? 

Jim. {Laughing) Even me. Fve been working 
for them so hard, I've rather got to like them. 

Alan. {Reproachful) Jim! 

Jim. And, what's more, I've adopted a sister. 
You'll have to be introduced. 

Alan. {Reluctant) All right, if you want me 
to. {He takes a few steps toward the children, 
saying as he goes:) Which one is it? {The chil- 
dren shrink farther away) What's the matter with 
them? 

Jim. They don't know you. 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 59 

Alan. Well, how should they? 

Jim. They're afraid you are not their friend. 

Alan. The idea ! As if I'd hurt them !— 

Jim. Where they come from, there's a new 
notion of friendship. When the world's all made 
up of being hurt or being saved, and nothing passive 
about it, you can't win trust by just keeping your 
hands off. Other hands will get there, unless you 
strike them away. That's the trouble. 

Alan. Oh. 

(Jim puts out his hand to the Belgian child.) 

Jim. Little sister from Belgium! (She comes to 
his side timidly, and takes his hand, her big eyes 
wondering) Do you remember the kid brother I 
told you about? This is he. 

{The child curtsies to Alan.) 

Alan. {Rather embarrassed) How do you do, 
— sister. 

The Belgian Child. {Always polite) I hope 
you don't mind sharing. 

Alan. Sharing Jirn? 

The Belgian Child. Yes. You see, we didn't 
expect you to corne. And I was all alone, too. 

Alan. Haven't you any folks? 

The Belgian Child. {Recalling the dream of 
her past) My daddy is marching on a long march — 
all day — all night. — 

Alan. And your mother 

The Belgian Child. {Softly) I think — I think 
my mother went to their country. {She turns to 
Tim in her half-puzzled way) It was the key — being 
no good. 

Jim. {Gently, but with a stern voice) I know. 

The Belgian Child. {Suddenly latighing) 



6o THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

She'll be here, by and by. We'll all have a great 
deal of fun. 

(Alan looks at Jim. But the Polish child has 
reached him and pulls him by the sleeve,) 

The Polish Child. (To Alan) You're older 
than I am. 

Alan. I should say so ! 

The Polish Child. And you must have enough 
to eat — you're so tall. 

(The English child has risen, still zvith the baby in 
her arms. She joins the little group about 
Alan.) 

The English Child. He says you go to school. 

Alan. I do. 

The Belgian Child. Do you wear a mask? 

Alan. Of course not. 

The English Child. Do you like school? 

Alan. I'd be glad enough if it blew up some day. 

The English Child. Mine did. 

(^Alan stares at her, and then suddenly puts his 
fingers in his ears.) 

Alan. Oh, don't! (He comes back to Jim) 
Do they keep talking and talking about those things ? 

Jim. Why not? 

Alan. And you have to listen to them, day in 
and day out — (He pauses, looking round him, with 
a new idea) Say, Jim ! What do you do here, any- 
how ? All the time ? 

(Jim grows very stern.) 

Jim. We're — waiting. 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 6i 

The Children. (Taking up his words) Yes, 
waiting. — Waiting. — Waiting. 

Alan. What for? 

Jim. For the last of the Caesars. 

Alan. To — come — here ? 

Jim. Yes! 

Alan. But — won't that be rather unpleasant for 
you people ? 

(Jim smiles and shakes his head.) 

Jim. When he comes, he w^ill be only a tired, 
stooped old man walking among the shadows. He'll 
go seeking through the dim Land for rest, but the 
patter of the children's feet, who pass him by, will 
keep him always awake. You see, there are so many 
of them ! It will be long that they drive him wake- 
ful and apart in dark places. 

Alan. That wouldn't be so bad. 

Jim. No. But therein lies hope for us and for 
you; and it will happen soon, please God. 

{On his last words, a great peal of beautiful hushed 
chimes rings faintly out of the air.) 

The Children. {Looking toward the left) The 
cathedrals ! — The cathedrals ! 

The Belgian Child. {To Jim) They want to 
go. I can take them there. 

Jim. Go ahead; and ask, all at once, for that. 

{The children form an odd little processioyi, two 
by tzvo. As the chimes continue to ring, they 
file off to the left. The English child still 
carries the baby from Paris. The Belgian 
child, at the head of the line, turns and waves 
one little hand to Jim. He gives her a gay 
salute. The children disappear, and the chimes 
die slowly away.) 



62 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

Alan. {Half shy and half in scorn) Your new 
sister's awfully religious, Jim. 

Jim. She's proud of the beauties in her old 
cathedrals. 

Alan. Oh, I see. 

Jim. {Smiling at him kindly) Yes, that's it. 

(Alan sits down on the tree-trunk.) 

Alan. Now I've got you all to myself, anyway. 

Jim. So you like this better! 

Alan. I can tell you I do! {Then he adds, try- 
ing to please Jim) Of course, they're mighty nice 
children, but don't you ever wish there v/eren't quite 
so many about ? 

Jim:. I wish there were none at all. 

Alan. {Ashamed) I — forgot. 

Jim. Forgot? 

Alx\n. Where I am. Having you, it's just like 
being home again — in the old days. {He stares up 
at his brother again) Only, it — isn't, — Jim. 

Jim. What do you see ? 

Alan. Something's different. Something in you. 
Why, just now, I — I didn't know you, at first. — 
{He realizes) You're not like the picture! 

Jim. {Smiling quizzically) Ah, the picture! 

Alan. Do you remember the one? Big thing, 
with you grinning at the whole world. 

Jim. Taken while I was in college. 

Alan. Yes ! 

Jim. When all red light was fireworks. 

Alan. And all life was a joke. 

Jim. And death, too, I guess. 

Alan. Jim, — was it coming here that changed 
you? 

Jim. No, indeed. Lord, one doesn't have time 
to change anything, coming here. Just as vou are. 
you arrive — and nobody minds a bit. 

Alan. Well, it's queer. You're not two years 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 63 

older than you were at home, but you act ages more 
than that. And your face used to be thin and 
twinkly with fun, and now it's a regular man's face, 
/ haven't grown up like that, and they say I'm at the 
growing age. 

Jim. No. You look just about the same, sonny. 
{He sits down beside him) Tell me what you've 
been doing. 

Alan. Nothing. I go to the old school, and 
chum with the old crowd. 

Jim. Bob and the others. 

Alan. Yes. And I'm always losing things, just 
the same as ever ! 

Jim. (Laughing) Family trait. 

Alan. Uh-huh. Even to-night, I lost my latch- 
key. 

Jim. Oh. (He takes the key from his pocket) 
Is'this it? 

Alan. Yes! Give me — (Jim shakes his head 
and returns the key to his pocket) Oh, please, 
Jim.— 

Jim. What for? 

Alan. Why, so I can take it home with me. 
(He zvaits; and, getting no response, gives a new 
reason) I know I deserve not to get it back, and all 
that, — but there's mother, you know. She's mighty 
scared of burglars. Think how much safer she'll 
feel when she finds it. (He looks at Jim, whose 
stern expression hasn't changed, and chuckles) I've 
got you there, Jim! You'll have to give it, for 
mother's sake. 

Jim. Did you hear what the Belgian child said 
about her mother? 

Alan. (Taken aback) Yes, — of course, — but — 

Jim. What makes you think that our mother is 
any safer? 

Alan. Mother — nothing could harm her — she's 
at home 



64 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

Jim. The same terror is hovering over her. 

Alan. {Horrified) You say that! 

JIM. This isn't an epoch of latch-keys. 

Alan. But what can one do? 

Jim. {Looking him straight in the eyes) Alan! 
You make this key safe, and you can have it back. 

Alan. {Slowly) Is that necessary? 

Jim. Yes. 

Alan. I haven't wanted to do anything. 

Tim. Whv? 

Alan. You. 

Jim. Were you ashamed of me? 

Alan. Oh, you know how proud ! 

Jim. AVere 3^011 afraid to follow me? 

Alan. It honestly wasn't that. — 

Jim. Then I don't understand. 

Alan. Why, the principle of the thing. — 

Jim. Do you know the principle of the thing? 

Alan. (In his queer tone) Do you? 

Jim. Why shouldn't I? 

Alan. Oh, I'm all mixed up, Jim Braith. Every- 
thing I ever believed in has been disproved to-night 
before my very eyes. Just before I came to the 
Land Where Lost Things Go, I was quarreling with 
Bob and my crowd — about the war — you see ? And 
they set you up to me for an example, and I — {He 
gets up, walks away, and then returns to Jim) Do 
you mind if I tell you what I said? 

Jim. About me? 

Alan. Yes. It wasn't very decent, but it was 
true enough — then. Wasn't it, Jim, — you went to 
war for the lark of it? Did you know what a 
principle was? 

Jim. I hadn't the faintest idea. 

Alan. Ah ! And then I told 'em you'd consider 
ending up a hero the biggest joke of the lot — if you 
knew about it. And you do know about it. JBut 
you're not the same Jim. 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 65 

Jim. Shall I tell you at last what changed me? 

Alan. What? 

Jim. The principle of the thing. 

Alan. Oh! — You found it back there. 

Jim. Now you see. So many people taking my 
big lark seriously. First I laughed at them, and then 
I wondered why they did it. And I asked them, 
and they said, " We're too busy to talk '\ And so 
I had to think. 

Alan. For yourself. 

Jim. While I was thinking, I got to where things 
happened. When I saw ruin, I said, " Fve come to 
avenge this, because that is now the best game on 
earth, but the ruin means nothing to me." And 
little by little the ruin meant that there must be 
none like it at home, for if there were, it would 
kill me. 

Alan. But there won't be ! 

Jim. When I saw^ death, I thought of myself as 
something higher than a player in a game. It puffed 
me all up, to think how noble I was to risk that, 
for saving the ruins of other people. And when I 
bragged of it, this is how they answered me. " The 
same blight threatens to fall on us all ", they said, 
'' And it is our poor black ruins that have stood 
between it and you, and kept it from your door. 
We have given our soil for you, and you grudge us 
the youth and strength and willingness that make a 
fair return." And I was ashamed. 

Alan. Jim, is it that? 

Jim. The principle. 

Alan. You mean it isn't just helping other people 
and getting no reward. 

Jim. But rewarding people who have helped us! 

Alan. Oh, I see. — I see. — ■ — 

Jim. I paid for my share the best I knew how. 

Alan. And now it's my turn! 

Jim. At the end, there is peace. 



66 THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 

x\lan. My turn. My debt. 

Jim. And still so much to do. 

Alan. Jim ! 

Jim. What is it, kid? 

Alan, When I get home, Til do what I can ! 

Jim. I know you will ! 

Alan. And Fll make ready for more in the years 
to come. 

Jim. When you are older. 

Alan. Yes. Till soon I can make it up to my 
own country for doubting the finest stand it ever 
took, and to the other nations for holding back what 
little I could do. {He smiles up into his brother's 
eyes) And you'll be proud of me yet, — please God. 

{The chimes of the lost cathedrals ring out again, 
pealing more triumphant than before,) 

Jim. {Holding out his hand, and speaking 
through the bells) Go home, then; and good luck! 

Alan. {Gripping his hand) You needn't think 
ril forget. 

Jim. You won't be able to. Not till you come 
here again, and tell me what youVe done ! 

{Nozv there has begun to mingle with the chim.es the 
sound of a smaller, thinner, and more persistent 
bell. And gradually, as the two brothers stand 
together, the chimes fade into the air, while the 
little new bell rings clearer — clearer — Black- 
ness swallows up everything but the sound of 
tt.^ [Now there should be almost no wait, 
zvith the house kept dark, and the intermittent 
ringing of the small bell continued. If the 
zvalls of the room are left standing behind the 
curtains, it should be a simple matter to taUe 
down these curtains, remove the tree-trunk, and 
bring on the chairs and table.] ) 



THE LAND WHERE LOST THINGS GO 67 

EPILOGUE 

Scene: It begins zvhere the prologue left off. 
Only, now, the telephone on the table beside 
Alan is ringing and ringing. At last he lifts 
his head from his arms, and looks about, be- 
wildered. Then he gets up, goes to the back 
of the table, and takes the instrument. 

Alan. {In a dazed voice) Hello. — Yes, this is 
Alan. — Oh, Bob! — {His voice clears a little, as the 
familiar name brings back reality. He smiles^ as 
he says:) No, I hadn't gone to bed. — You want to 
what ? — Oh, no, no, please don't apologize ! Please ! 
— Yes, of course, I was your guest, and your mother 
thinks you were horrid. They always do. — But you 
fellows were right! — Yes, I said it. Dead right, 
Bob. {He is very earnest, almost reverent) Oh, I 
know a thing or two — now. — {Then a half -mis- 
chievous smile) Thank you for it? Don't be too 
sure 

{The curtain falls on him talking.) 






) 



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